


Parisian Nights

by thesepossessedbylight



Series: Fire Over The Holy City [1]
Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/F, Fire over the Holy City prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 06:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10893918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesepossessedbylight/pseuds/thesepossessedbylight
Summary: 3rd December 1939: Bernie is invited to a party thrown by one of her colleagues at the hospital where she works, in Paris. There, she meets Alex, a dark-eyed surgeon who thinks that some things are better slow...





	Parisian Nights

**Author's Note:**

> In the Fire Over the Holy City 'verse, this slots in right when Bernie meets Alex in Paris. War has been declared, but it's still the 'phony war'; France hasn't yet been invaded, the Resistance is still but a dream, and - for tonight at least - things are still good.

3rd December 1939: Paris, France.

The apartment was cramped and lacked accoutrements, the living space of someone who was rarely home and had no patience for interior decorating. The moment she stepped through the door, Bernie felt instantly at home.

Unfortunately, that was the best she could say: her friends from the hospital had invited her to the party and, knowing few other people in Paris, she’d agreed. She’d had second thoughts as they caught the metro from their work in the 16th arrondissement to the host’s apartment in the 15th; she’d had second thoughts as they’d tramped through the rain from rue de Commerce to the apartment on rue de Croix Nivert; she’d had second thoughts as she’d stepped through the door, seeing nurses and doctors from the hospital mingling, at easy and charming with their fluent French and their air of _je ne sais quoi._ Bernie’s French was good, and her accent was perfect, but she was never able to charm, in either French or her native English. She was too clumsy, too awkward; too ill at ease knowing what people must think of her, _la femme anglaise_ without a husband. So she accepted a tall flute of champagne from the host, put a bright, insincere smile on her face, and skulked off to hide on the balcony. 

The balcony was freezing, but it afforded her a glorious view over the Paris rooftops to the Eiffel tower, where, in defiance of the newly-declared war, the beacon on top of the tower continued to revolve, casting a beam of white light across Bernie’s vision at regular intervals. The rest of Paris had not succumbed to the fear of German airplanes either: the city of light continued to be lit up, golden and sparkling and vivacious, as only France can be. Despite her feeling that she didn’t quite fit in to this effortlessly charming culture, Bernie felt at home in Paris: the Parisians cared less than Londoners that at 34 she had not found a husband, and - in line with customary French discretion - they cared little to discover her secrets. In her last few years here in Paris she had fashioned a good life for herself, working as a doctor in a wealthy hospital in the 16th arrondissement, living in a tiny walk-up apartment in the 15th, working and socialising with the same people who liked her, admired her work, respected her as a professional.

But today she was tired. Given the choice, if she was forced to go anywhere tonight, she would probably have chosen to visit _Le Monocle,_ the bar in Montmartre where women like her could find a safe place and a pair of friendly eyes, but her friends had invited her to this party and, caught off-guard, she’d been unable to find any reason to refuse. 

The sound of laughter drifted in from the other room, and Bernie shivered, out on the balcony. 

“ _Jouez le Piaf!”_ someone shouted in the other room, clearly on their way to tipsy.

“ _Le Piaf?”_ someone else asked. “ _Pourquoi pas l’autre?”_

Bernie peered through the glass doors into the room. The second speaker was holding aloft a record by the singer Jean Sablon, but the first speaker shook his head vigorously, taking a Piaf record out of its sleeve and placing it on the record player. The orchestral strains of _La Vie en Rose_ drifted through the apartment, and Bernie sank back against the balcony wall. 

_Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,_ Edith Piaf sang from the record player, her big voice belying her tiny body. _Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche, voilà la portrait sans retouche de l’homme auquel j’appartiens_ …

Bernie let her gaze travel to the inky sky, punctuated by the beacon of the Eiffel tower. Idly, she timed her breaths to the sweep of the light, and let her thoughts drift on the ebbs and flows of Piaf’s voice, until - 

“Thought you could maybe do with another glass of champagne?” 

Bernie’s eyes flew open. Another woman had edged out onto the balcony with her, and was holding a flute of champagne in both hands. She extended one to Bernie, who set her previous flute down and took the new one with a small shrug. 

“Thanks,” Bernie said softly. The woman smiled, dark eyes alight with some inner mischief, and - despite her best intentions - Bernie liked her immediately.

The woman flicked her shiny auburn hair out of her eyes and extended a hand to Bernie. “I’ve seen you before at these things,” she said nonchalantly. “I’m Alex.”

“Bernie,” Bernie said, taking the hand, which was strong and steady - a surgeon’s hand. “I’m surprised you’ve noticed me; I so rarely attend these parties.”

Alex smiled a slow, considering grin. “Believe me,” she said, “I’ve definitely noticed you.” 

Bernie gulped. She realised she was still holding Alex’s hand, and loosened her grip, missing the warmth of her palm immediately. “So,” she said, and coughed a little out of a sudden fit of nervousness. Alex’s grin widened. “I suppose you work at the hospital too?” 

“Yes,” said Alex, leaning back against Bernie’s wall, close enough that her shoulder bumped Bernie’s. “I’m a surgeon in the cardiology ward. You?”

“Surgeon,” Bernie said, feeling on more solid ground. “Trauma ward.” 

“Oho,” Alex teased, “you’re one of the cowboys, huh.” 

“We get our job done faster than you lot,” Bernie snarked back, “always taking years to decide which vein to sever, what artery you’re staring at. I could do an entire chest reconstruction in the time it takes your lot to decide whether to do a bypass or a revascularisation.”

Alex grinned, moving so she was propped against the wall with one shoulder. Bernie blushed a little, and moved backwards, realising that she’d painted herself into a corner - quite literally - when she felt the rough concrete of the other wall behind her back. Alex inched closer.

“Nevertheless,” Alex said quietly, nearly unable to be heard over the continuing strains of Edith Piaf from the other room, “some things are better slow.” She trailed her fingers down Bernie’s arm, searching for the forgotten champagne flute, and bent down to set both flutes on the balcony beside them. 

“Some things are better fast,” Bernie rejoined, and her eyes widened at the tone of her voice, dark and full of gravel. 

Alex leaned forward. 

“That’s true enough,” she whispered, so close that Bernie could practically taste the champagne she’d drunk, and then she completed her inevitable trajectory towards Bernie’s lips and they were kissing.

Bernie _could_ taste the champagne they’d both drunk. Alex opened her mouth, slipped her tongue inside Bernie’s, and _oh -_ she tasted sweet, smokey and utterly Parisian. Bernie’s posture crumpled, and Alex wrapped an arm around Bernie’s shoulders, tilting her head for better access and Bernie was gone, flying, unaware of anything but Alex’s taste and scent and skin. Bernie wrapped her hands around Alex’s waist, holding on for dear life as Alex broke the kiss and continued trailing kisses down Bernie’s jaw. Bernie’s head thumped back against the wall and - was that a moan from Alex, who had reached Bernie’s collarbone, placing tiny licks into the hollows she found there. Bernie wound her hands into Alex’s short hair, pulling her up to kiss into her mouth once more, feeling the heat radiate off her and warm Bernie from the inside out. 

After a few long seconds, Bernie pulled back. Alex opened her eyes, looking disappointed, and opened her mouth to say something. Bernie placed a finger over her mouth, revelling in the feel of her soft lips, kiss-slick and shiny.

“Not here,” Bernie said, and Alex’s eyes widened in realisation. 

“Where?” 

“I have an apartment,” Bernie whispered. “Two streets away.”

Alex nodded and stood up straighter, neatening her dress where Bernie’s impatient hands had mussed it. “Take me there,” she said softly, and Bernie grinned, kissing her briefly once again, unable to stay away.


End file.
